


need to grieve and need to need

by bleedingdaylight



Series: my pain walks down a one way street [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Copa América 2015, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 18:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4315659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleedingdaylight/pseuds/bleedingdaylight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He turns on his phone, immediately bombarded with the expected and inevitably consolatory text messages, phone calls and emails. It reminds him a lot of the previous year, sitting on his hotel bed, staring at the names and not finding the one he desperately wants to see. He feels an immense amount of guilt that it’s not who it should be, who it’s <i>supposed</i> to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	need to grieve and need to need

**Author's Note:**

> so i guess this is kind of a sequel to [fates worse than death](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2068263), which i never actually wanted to write a sequel for because i want leo and neymar to be happy and win.
> 
> title from _beauty_ by the shivers

It’s a distinct numbness, one that hits you like a monstrous wave, one that pulls you down with it. It feels a lot like last year, the slowing and speeding up of time all at once. It is devastation in its purest, rawest form, one that completely overtakes and leaves nothing but heartbreak in its wake. Leo knows the feeling well by now, almost like an old friend. It rarely leaves him, always lurking in the background, even in the most joyous of moments.

He refuses to accept the award, not out of arrogance, but because he cannot stand to look at another trophy that taunts him with the sentiment that he was “good, but simply not good enough.” He already has enough of those, thinking of the trophy from last year, sitting in the back of his closet, a constant reminder of his failures.

He wants to win. He _needs_ to win. He needs to win for his country. He needs to win for his team. He needs to win so that the world knows this is where he belongs, wearing white and sky blue, that he has no regrets for choosing these colors over the vibrant red of Spain, even if it meant the most important trophy that’s missing from his massive collection, the one everyone says he desperately needs the most.

He can’t stand to watch another team dance all over a pitch, lifting a trophy that could have been his, only if he worked harder, if he led his team better. He keeps his eyes downcast, staring at the ground, not fitting the numbness that overrides everything. He smiles dimly when a couple of children offer him words of comfort, even when he could see the light in their eyes, the joy of victory. Leo can only imagine what that pride must feel like, the pride of your country winning.

Leo doesn’t remember much of the medal ceremony or the boarding of the bus, the bus completely silent, Tata speechless, the players devastated and overwhelmed. Kun’s body is warm and solid next to his, shoulders barely touching as they both stare at the floor. Leo can’t help but replay all the missed chances of the match, all the opportunities he should have taken advantage of. Kun squeezes his bicep lightly, like he could read his thoughts.

“It wasn’t you, Leo, it wasn’t,” Kun mutters almost inaudibly, the words dripping out of his mouth like he’s not conscious of them.

Leo bows his head and squeezes Kun’s thigh in acknowledgement, unable to speak. He doesn’t trust his voice to not completely give away the heartbreak and guilt he feels. Kun would never forgive him if he knew the guilt that Leo felt, like he was the sole reason they didn’t win. That if he tried harder, worked more efficiently, played smarter, that they would still be in the dressing room, opening champagne bottles and spraying it all over their trophy as they dance and shout in happiness.

“It was all of us,” Kun continues softly as his grip on Leo’s arm tightens slightly, as if Leo is anchoring him. “I know you blame yourself for losses, but Leo, _it was not you._ We let you down.”

Leo shakes his head. “Kun, I could have—” Leo tries to start but Kun just shakes his head, his lips curling up into a bitter, dim smile.

“There was nothing you could have done more. You can’t do everything.”

“I know, but—”

Kun just continues to shake his head. “No, Leo. Just, please, believe me,” he says, his voice still soft but firm. He turns his eyes back down on the ground, ending the conversation. Leo purses his lips and clenches his jaw and does the same.

They reach the hotel soon, the silence still enveloping them, similar to the numbness that followed in its wake. The walk and the elevator ride seem like a millisecond and an eternity, all in one. The minute they open the door and walk into the room, Kun makes a beeline for the bathroom, leaving Leo in the middle of the room, lost and devastated. Leo hears the shower turn on, even though Kun showered back at the stadium.

He turns on his phone, immediately bombarded with the expected and inevitably consolatory text messages, phone calls and emails. It reminds him a lot of the previous year, sitting on his hotel bed, staring at the names and not finding the one he desperately wants to see. He feels an immense amount of guilt that it’s not who it should be, who it’s _supposed_ to be.

He recalls their phone call from last year, one that sparked feelings that Leo had no way of dealing with, feelings that helped their friendship bloom in the strangest way, almost too affectionate in the way they touched each other and were constantly with each other, despite their incredibly busy schedules, whether it was at each other’s houses, texting, or at training. He thinks he’s plain obvious, his feelings evident and clear, but everyone seems to be writing it off as another football partnership turned into close companionship.

Antonella’s never questioned or commented on Neymar’s frequent visits or the spamming of his WhatsApp at the hands of Neymar armed with ridiculous comments accompanied with equally ridiculous onslaughts of emojis, and Davi seemed to like leading Thiago around well enough when Neymar brought him along that Leo decided to not look a gift horse in the mouth. But after the game in Valencia when Busi scored and Neymar tackled him into a hug, something changed. It wasn’t major but Neymar started touching him what seems like all of the time and Leo began to feel less guilty as he relishes in every small nudge or every bone crushing hug.

Leo’s not proud of his thoughts or his actions, and is especially not proud of the lack of guilt he feels about it all. He’s been careful to not take anything further than appropriate, to not take more than he’s being given. He couldn’t bare the thought of hurting Antonella or losing Thiago and their child, growing bigger and bigger every day in Antonella.

His phone rings, slicing through the tense silence and Leo’s thoughts all at once. Leo lets it ring out for a little while until he looks down at the caller ID to see Antonella’s name and a picture of her and Thiago, both smiling at the camera happily, on his screen. A knot in his stomach forms as one hand hovers over the answer slide while the other hovers over the lock button to silence his phone. He can’t deal with the stress of answering the call or the guilt of silencing it, and tries to not let the shame completely devastate him as he just lets the call ring out for what feels like forever until it finally silences itself.

Leo unlocks his phone and stares down at the recent call list, looks at Antonella’s name in red, a stark contrast of Neymar’s name that is directly under it, written in black. The last time they talked was after Neymar’s red card and graceless exit of the tournament, the conservation tense and emotional, as Neymar’s anger and sadness fluctuated throughout the hour-long call, riddled with long pauses that turned into silence filled with tension and sharp words. At the end of the call, memories from the phone call after the World Cup resurfaced as Neymar's petulant “I miss you, Leo,” brought back feelings that causes shame to rise up within Leo as he can't help himself from liking that sad, childish tone.

He hasn’t heard from him since, but Dani’s bi-hourly updates of his condition and whereabouts and Neymar’s Instagram both indicate that Neymar’s either drinking away his sorrows or sleeping it all off.

Suddenly, Leo’s phone freezes up slightly as the recent call list turns into a ridiculous selfie of Neymar and his name large on the top of the screen. Leo feel horrible as he does not hesitate to answer the call at all, sliding his finger over the answer button as soon as he read the name.

“Hey,” he breathes into the phone.

“Leo,” Neymar says, his voice wobbly, indicating either he’s already drunk or he’s closing to getting there. “Hey.”

A silence follows as Leo scrambles to think of something as he listens to Neymar’s shaky, heavy breathing through the line.

“Well, this fucking sucks,” Neymar says, shocking Leo into barking out a surprised laugh. “Reminds you of last year? Except now my back’s not broken and you don’t even get to go home with a souvenir this time. Claudio will think you’re after his heart.” Neymar giggles a little bit and Leo decides he’s definitely drunk already. Someone needs to cut him off before he drinks himself into the ground.

Leo sighs. “Are you okay?”

Neymar giggles some more. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question? Man, I told you, fates worse than death, the two of us. The weight of millions of people’s expectations, hell, the weight of two stifling countries on our shoulders, and like last year, everything just fucks up colossally. You lose in the final again and I leave the tournament early and my team get screwed over in the following match.”

“Fucking internationals,” Leo mutters and immediately feels guilty after because he loves representing his country, has dreamed about playing under the badge since he could remember.

Neymar laughs, hysterical and bitter. “Some things never change, Leo.”

They both fall silent after that, Leo digging his nails in his thighs, trying to refrain from saying something that will give him away, something he knows he will regret the second it leaves his mouth. Instead, he listens to Neymar’s breathing, inconsistent and ragged.

Then, Neymar has to go and say, “I want you, Leo,” his voice needy and breathless, and it feels like a punch to the stomach, leaving Leo winded and speechless, grasping at something to ground him. “I’ve wanted you for so long and now I don’t know what to do with you or myself or my feelings.”

“Neymar—” Leo cuts himself off before he says anything he regrets. He thinks of Antonella’s name in red and Neymar's name in black and doesn’t know what to do with those feelings.

“Leo, please,” Neymar breathes into the phone, “I need you. I want to—” Before Neymar could finish, there’s noise in the background and then Leo hears Dani’s voice, stern and concerned.

Then, after a few moments of Dani and Neymar’s voices blending together in the background, Dani’s voice is clear as he says, “Hey Leo. Uh, Ney’s kind of…intoxicated, as you could probably tell.”

Leo clears his throat awkwardly, feeling like he just got caught with his hand down somebody else’s pants by his parents. “Yeah, um. I could tell. He sounded pretty out of it.”

“Yeah, I’m going to get him to bed before he falls over the edge of the balcony and dies. I could see the headlines now, ‘Idiot Footballer Dies in Tragic Balcony Incident.’ I think Luis would kill me.” There is a small pause before Dani says, “You were great, Leo. I know you probably don’t want to hear it, but you tried your best and sometimes, things just turn out shitty anyway. Even for the best in the world.”

“Thanks, Dani. Tell Neymar that I say good night,” Leo says, taking the easy way out because he doesn’t think he can handle more emotional stress now.

Dani scoffs. “Tell him yourself, I’m not your messenger,” he says before passing the phone back to Neymar.

“Leo?” Neymar says, tentative.

“Call me back when you’re sober.”

“Okay. Good night, Leo.”

“Good night,” he replies softly. He’s about to hang up until he accidently blurts, “I want you, too,” then hangs up as quickly as he can.

Kun comes out of the bathroom shortly after that, still fully dressed and face blotchy, eyes ringed red. Leo wordlessly tugs him over to his bed, hugging Kun to himself. Neither of them say anything for a long time because there’s nothing that could be said to heal the trauma.

Leo doesn’t remember falling asleep, tucked into Kun’s warm body, but he wakes up to a text early in the morning. It’s from Neymar.

 _I meant everything I said last night_ , it reads, the words hitting Leo like a sucker punch.

He doesn’t think before he sends back, _Me too._ He sets his phone back on the nightstand and falls back asleep easily, the knot in his stomach loosening slightly and his shoulders sagging ever so slightly.

It would be okay, eventually.


End file.
